


Little Treasure

by RumblingJazz (neoculture_dorkology)



Series: A Tyrant's Treasure [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Fingering, M/M, Non-Consensual, Or possibly dub con?, Oral, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, plot? where?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 15:34:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14216277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neoculture_dorkology/pseuds/RumblingJazz
Summary: "Open," the tyrant purred, his words pure sin. Or were they poison?





	Little Treasure

Those fingers were powerful, locking tight around his neck cables. Bluestreak had no illusions about the amount of damage they could do. With a flick of his wrist, Megatron could tear important lines, could rupture soft mesh and tear into the protoform.

But he didn't. 

He leered down at the sniper instead, his other hand resting on Bluestreak's sleek hip. The sniper inwardly dared to label the hold as _possessive_ , staking a silent claim to something that wasn't his. His mouth was dry, staring up at the tyrant as he wondered what would be done with him. 

As though he didn't already know. 

"Your Prime..." Megatron trailed off, the thumb of his left hand rubbing the side of Bluestreak's hip with a gentleness that didn't fit the look in his eye. "When was the last time he praised you?" 

Bluestreak's usual babble had abandoned him. He opened his mouth, and nothing came out. And Megatron was smiling, self-satisfied. 

Damn him. 

"What I thought." Megatron leaned in, stopped by the Praxian's shaking hands. Bluestreak had enough wits about him to attempt to keep Megatron from coming any closer, from touching any more of him than he had. 

"It's not Prime's duty to praise me," Bluestreak whispered. "It's-"

"Your creator's? Prowl isn't your real sire." 

That _stung_.

Bluestreak's face contorted into a rarely-seen expression of anger and pain. He tried to pull away from Megatron, though he was merely drawn closer to the tyrant. "Let go of me," he hissed. 

The hand on his hips moved, burying between thighs that clamped together on instinct. Bluestreak thrashed again, only stilled by the press of a claw against an energon line. 

"Open," the tyrant purred, his words pure sin. Or were they poison? 

"Get off of me getoffgetoffgetoffgetoff _getoff_ \--" 

The hand around his throat tightened, claw pressing further. "Open your panels, or I send you back to your darling _Prowl_ in a box with a pretty little bow." 

Bluestreak snarled at him, but opened his panels. He could remember Jazz telling him many times to do what he could to survive long enough to be rescued.

 _Rescue._ Oh, Bluestreak prayed this was over before anyone found him. 

Megatron's fingers took their time probing the outside of the sniper's valve, drawing his attention back to the tyrant he was pressed up against. Bluestreak's teeth dug into the inner part of his lower lip, attempting to distract himself from the fingers that had dipped inside the valve. 

"You're aroused," the tyrant noted. 

Bluestreak felt his face heating with shame. "Not because of you," he hissed. "Was busy before this happened."

"It must be hard to kill your charge, then." The tyrant's grin told Bluestreak that his lie was not believed. "So what about this situation arouses you?" One finger wormed into him, stroking sensitive walls. "Being held like this?" His hand squeezed around Bluestreak's throat. 

"No." Bluestreak's thighs were trembling. It had been a long time since he had someone between his legs - and Megatron was being far more gentle than he should have been. The sniper didn't like it. What was Megatron trying to get out of him? 

"Is it the thought of being forced?" Megatron's voice had dropped into a purr, as he wiggled a second finger along the third. _Primus_ , if his fingers were that large, what was his spike like? 

No. Those were bad thoughts to be having. 

"No," Bluestreak gasped out as the tyrant scissored his fingers. Hands that had pushed him away were now clinging to him, the sniper barely supporting his own weight. 

As though sensing Bluestreak wouldn't be able to hold himself much longer, Megatron released the sniper's throat and hoisted him up, right arm under his aft while he slowly added a third finger. He didn't press the question, red optics gleaming as he gazed down. Bluestreak looked down as well, and discovered that his lubricants were running down his thighs and Megatron's arm. 

On a whim, the Praxian whispered, "You should clean that up." 

"That permission?" Megatron asked, borderline mockingly. Bluestreak didn't respond, not that the tyrant gave him a chance to. The large mech removed his fingers from Bluestreak's valve and hoisted him up, pulling legs over his shoulders and---

Bluestreak keened, his legs locking between Megatron's shoulders as a skilled glossa buried itself in his valve. Bluestreak squirmed, the tyrant holding him in place - keeping him from falling, or pushing against Megatron's face. His babble had returned in the form of pleas and cries of pleasure wrung from him by the Deceipticon warlord. 

And all the while, Bluestreak knew it was _wrong_ to get off on this. 

Megatron pulled away, pressing a light kiss to Bluestreak's swollen anterior node. "You're beautiful," he murmured. "Quite a little treasure. And look who caught you up, darling." 

"Don't call me that," Bluestreak panted. 

Megatron just chuckled at him, and buried his face back between his legs. A gentle nip tugged at one of his valve's folds, causing him to jolt before Megatron was digging into him in earnest, his glossa doing things Bluestreak didn't know were possible. His calipers tried to cycle down on a spike that wasn't there, pulling an indignant whine from Bluestreak's vocalizer. 

"Patience," Megatron murmured. 


End file.
